


The Violin

by selkieskin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Affection, Domestic Fluff, Emotionally Repressed, Emotions, Friendship, Gen, Inspired by Music, Music, Sherlock Plays the Violin, Sherlock's Violin, Slice of Life, Talking, Violins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-09-11 00:55:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8946697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/selkieskin/pseuds/selkieskin
Summary: A little slice-of-life vignette. John and Sherlock are at home, and Sherlock is playing the violin. John finds himself emotionally affected by the music.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I found this and am not sure where I was going with it, so I thought I'd post it as it was. It's perfect the way it is.

_Music expresses that which cannot be said on which it is impossible to be silent_ – Victor Hugo

-

John sat on the couch in the living room of Baker Street, reading the newspaper but not really concentrating on it. The text sprawled in front of him, remaining just shapes on paper, lines and images. But then again, John wasn't seriously trying to read it anyway. It was really an excuse to sit in on the unfortunately rare spectacle that was Sherlock playing the violin to the best of his abilities.

John had learned quickly that the minute anyone began openly observing the detective playing, he would switch to obnoxious-mode and throw in some particularly jarring screeches for good measure. But Sherlock on the violin, playing seriously... well, it was just sublime.

Nothing does pathos quite so well as a violin, and despite Sherlock's constant claim that he had no emotions, had no reason for emotions – a statement John hardly ever gave much credence to anyway – he found this particularly unbelievable when his wild flatmate became wrapped in the throes of music. The high soulful wails and the chilling lows sounded from the instrument and John knew there was no way the music could be coaxed from the violin by pure technical skill alone. An unfeeling machine would play music that was correct, yes, but only instinct could tell just how long to hold that note for, how long it took to bleed it of all it could give. Playing the violin, as Sherlock had explained once before (in much more technical language), was not merely about placing the fingers in the right position on the strings, but at high levels about knowing how much to place your fingers slightly off what was the technical correct note to produce a sound like the ones John was hearing now.

This portion of the piece was sad, pained, but somehow shot through with hope, John thought. The high notes shook like the voice of a bird whose heart was about to burst, like it was giving its very last breath to this song. The sound went through John, making his breath hitch in his throat and tears sprang unbidden to his eyes. He felt like the strings of his heart were what was being worked upon by that bow. He was swept away in a tumult of emotions of the piece, still outwardly sat quietly, but inside transported by the sound. He saw nothing any more, only heard. The final lingering note was the sweetest of all, wavering but strong, high, and sorrowful.

It was a few moments before John realised Sherlock had stopped, and that he himself was still suffering a rather obvious effect of the music. He blinked, clearing his vision in time to see Sherlock linger for a few moments with his bow still near the strings, then lower it slowly, ever-so-slowly to his side. Those cool, all-seeing, unfeeling eyes turned to regard him, pale under the mess of dark hair.

John immediately found himself turning hot from embarrassment. He wiped his eyes swiftly with the sleeve of his jumper, giving a little cough to cover his reaction.

“I, er... I'll just go and make a cup of tea,” he swiftly mumbled, leaving the couch and leaving Sherlock standing there, alone by the window. 

-

John returned a few minutes later with two steaming cups of tea. Sherlock was busy packing up his violin in its velvet casing. There were a few moments of awkward silence, but Sherlock was never one to pay much attention to awkward silences.

“Are you often affected like that in response to music?” he asked imperiously. The eyes were piercing, curious. John gave a small, self-conscious laugh as he replied, trying to explain it as clearly as he could so that the detective would understand.

“Not... usually. And usually it's stuff with lyrics that gets me most, I don't know, there was just something about it...” Sherlock's curiosity vanished while John was still speaking and he turned away to put the violin case somewhere safe. The violin was the one thing Sherlock seemed to actually care about keeping somewhere safe in the house; their security was too low to risk it being left out. John's laptop though was apparently fair game. Of course. Then again, Sherlock had his own subtle ways of revealing himself. John could at least take a stab in the dark once in a while and actually hit something.

“But yes, my day was fine, thank you. Nothing in particular happened. You could just ask,” he teased, grinning.

Sherlock whirled around to face him. Rumbled, John thought to himself. Sherlock still tried to act nonchalant, giving a disinterested snort as he turned back.

“What possible reason would you have for thinking that is what I was asking, John?”

John just snorted with amusement in reply and changed the subject. He didn't need to say anything else. He knew.


End file.
